


It's Only Hair

by Saentorine



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Angst and Humor, Angst with a Happy Ending, Beards (Facial Hair), Bugs & Insects, Crack Treated Seriously, Developing Friendships, Dwarves, Elves, Facial Shaving, Fellowship of the Ring, Fluff and Angst, Friendship, Gen, Hair, Haircuts, Head Shaving, Humiliation, Long Hair, Male Friendship, Parasites, Travel, aragorn is kind of everybody's mom, gimli can speechify, legolas is freakishly clean, little good it does him, scalp massage, yes we get it aragorn's hair is dirty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-01
Updated: 2015-03-01
Packaged: 2018-03-15 21:04:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3461969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saentorine/pseuds/Saentorine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Every member of the Fellowship has had to make some sacrifices on their journey, but good friends make sacrifices easier to bear.</p><p>Not necessarily shippy, but could be read as early Legolas/Gimli or even Legolas/Aragorn if you like.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's Only Hair

**Author's Note:**

> This started out as a rather crack idea I was discussing with a friend that Legolas’s noticeable cleanliness compared to the rest of the Fellowship might actually be a liability in certain situations-- but then I started writing it and the silly premise escalated and actually become sort of serious and I hope somewhat sweet (:
> 
> Takes place during the Fellowship of the Ring after the company has left Lothlórien and is on their way towards the Argonath by boat. Timeline’s wonky since they really don’t spend as many days on the river as this implies, but I think we can safely assume this isn’t something that actually would/could have happened anyway (no matter how much I tried to weave it in with canon), so eh.

As an elf, Legolas had no need for sleep in the traditional sense. Thus he kept watch for the Fellowship night after night, able to rest his mind and recover his body with pleasant reveries and quiet strolls in the scenery near their camp. The peace of nature restored his energy, but in these quiet moments he often thought of home. Although the woodland realm had long grown dark and deadly, he still fondly recalled the coziness of the torch-lit caves and the echo of the voices of his woodland kin within them, and the tactile comfort of relaxing with his father as he long brushed and braided his hair, an affectionate ritual that was not the custom of his current companions. 

At least there was one homely habit he had not had to surrender. Although he could not venture far from the sleeping company lest he be too late to warn them should he sense a threat, when there was a spring or stream nearby he would into the clear water to rinse away the dust of travel. From dawn to dusk on their feet with little rest for meals the company had little chance for bathing, but Legolas had the hours of the night to himself and took full advantage of them. Although it wasn’t quite the same, he would detangle and braid his hair again himself, gazing at the stars and quietly singing snatches of familiar songs to rest himself.

As they continued their way down the Anduin from Lothlórien, however, he found care of his hair seemed to consist less of washing and braiding, and more of _scratching_. His scalp itched and twinged, and although little could disrupt his sharp focus on their quest it was beginning to concern him.

In the morning as the two humans and the dwarf prepared the boats for the day's travel while the hobbits rolled bedding back at the night’s campsite, he approached Aragorn for some of his healing advice. As he sat comfortably on the ground Aragon crouched behind him and began to gently sift through sections of his hair, parting it to inspect the skin beneath. Legolas closed his eyes, enjoying the sensation of grooming that reminded him of home—though under Aragorn’s ministrations he could feel just how sore his scalp had become.

However, it was less than a minute of this before Aragorn spoke with surprise and dread: “Legolas, your hair is thick with insects.”

Legolas laughed and rolled his eyes as the disgust of man, for a child of the Eldar took a more kindly view of the creatures of nature. “We have traveled many days in forest and cave. I do not mind that some harmless stowaways should rest there a while and accompany us on our journey.” Given the state of his own hair, he was surprised Aragorn was even concerned.

“These are no temporary stowaways, my friend, nor are they harmless,” Aragorn explained. “They have laid their eggs and made a home of your hair. You scratch because they feast upon your blood.”

“What?” Legolas’s hand flew to cup the side of his head, for even now there was another itching twinge which according to Aragorn must be a bite.

“You’ve picked up head lice, laddie,” Gimli frowned, having been close enough to overhear. “Parasites.”

“’Picked up?’” he repeated. “How does one catch them?” His companions’ concerned revulsion was not lost on him and he began to feel embarrassed and defensive, as well as exceedingly foolish for having ignored the problem. “ _You_ seem to know a lot about them, Gimli; perhaps they are hiding in the thick of your beard, and they leapt to my hair during these many days we have shared a boat.”

“Mind how you speak of a dwarf’s beard; to insult it is to insult the dwarf that wears it, and I’ll have you know _mine_ is no festering nest of lice.”

“Gimli, may I take a look?” Aragorn asked. When Gimli’s eyebrows furrowed he clarified, “I am not accusing you of anything. But given how they spread, it is unlikely that only one of us has them.” Gimli turned around with a grumble and Aragorn began to part sections of his wiry auburn locks to inspect the skin beneath. Gimli’s small eyes glared intently at Legolas the entire time and Legolas stared back, certain the truth would soon be revealed. However, when Aragorn shifted from Gimli’s hair to his beard without so much of the question of a nit, his certainty began to shift into an uneasy, embarrassed disappointment.

“I see no sign of them on you,” Aragorn admitted.

“You see?” Gimli hollered in triumph. 

Aragorn then made a beckoning motion to Boromir, who was starting back towards camp to check on the hobbits’ progress. “I haven’t been scratching,” he protested.

“Nevertheless, if there’s even the start of an infestation . . . “

Boromir complied with a sigh, and as Aragorn began to inspect him strand by strand Legolas continued to frantically speculate where he might have caught them. “Perhaps I acquired them in Moria, with all those corpses with beards lying about . . . “

“Those _corpses_ were my kin!” Gimli sputtered. “And their beards were as lush and healthy as they had been in life, even if a bit cobwebby.” 

“In such a dank hovel of death and despair, they must have been desperate to leap to the first sign of a healthy head of hair in years.”

“Seems more likely you’d gotten them from your kin in Lothlórien as we’ve been there more recently, and I believe the creatures require living flesh to sustain themselves,” Boromir pointed out, raising an eyebrow at elf’s persistent animosity with the dwarf and a little irritated at the search he was being subjected to.

Gimli gave a low whistle at Boromir’s boldness; as much as he usually loved to rile the elf, it didn’t seem right when he could see clearly that their companion’s bitter insults were only an emotional defense against the shock and shame of the lice infestation that so far no one shared. Besides, Gimli could vouch the hairs of Galadriel at least were pure and clean as starlight.

Aragorn saw the flash of Legolas’s eyes and gave a light admonishing tug to his current handful of Boromir’s hair, interrupting before the bickering began. “Where they began is of no matter; all that concerns us now is how far they’ve spread. Boromir, it looks you’ve been spared as well, but we’ll need to check the halflings.”

As the four of them made their way closer to the cooking fire, Aragorn announced that there was lice in the camp, wishing there were some better way to spare Legolas’s pride. Boromir and Gimli were no help when as the hobbits looked curiously to them they both made silently repulsed faces of denial and looked pointedly to the elf. “We need to check everyone’s hair for bugs, nits, or any sign of bites and irritation,” Aragorn instructed. “I will check if you have any doubts in what you see.”

Boromir first made for Frodo, but at the sight of him Frodo unconsciously lifted his fist to grip the ring. Boromir narrowed his lips and silently turned away, instead approaching Merry who settled happily onto his knees without a second thought while Sam took charge of Frodo.

“I thought elves didn’t get sick,” said Pippin as he plopped into Merry’s lap so Merry could sift through his curls in turn.

“Well, it’s not exactly ‘sick’ is it? The bugs being on the outside and all,” Merry replied. But Pippin’s thoughts echoed what Legolas was sure they were all thinking: how absurd it was for an elf, the very vision of purity and beauty, to be scratching himself like a dog with fleas.

Frodo bit his lip in concern when he switched places with Sam after his own all-clear, gently parting his sandy locks. “Have you been falling asleep with lembas in your bed? I can’t tell if these are nits or crumbs.”

A pause. “They’d be crumbs, Mister Frodo.”

“Sam, I didn’t mean for you to _taste_ them!” Frodo laughed.

Meanwhile, Gimli assisted Aragorn. “You know what you’re looking for?” Aragorn asked him.

“Aye, but so far so good.”

Legolas peered over Gimli’s shoulder to see for himself. Aragorn’s roots were wet with sweat, but aside from a bit of grit-- Legolas could not help but wrinkle his nose at just how dirty Aragorn allowed himself to get-- there was indeed nothing of interest lurking amongst them. “But how can it be? I wash oftenest of all of you!” he cried in shock.

“The truth is lice prefer clean hair,” Aragorn gave Legolas an apologetic smile as he turned back around. “You might say it is in a ranger’s best interest _not_ to wash frequently.”

Legolas groaned softly, feeling betrayed. It defied all logic! How could he have known?

Aragorn gave a quick check to the hobbits to confirm their companions’ assurance they were clear as well. “So it’s only Legolas who has them,” he concluded. “At least that is some relief.”

Legolas certainly didn’t think it was a relief-- _especially_ not when Sam spoke up. “Is he going to have to shave his hair?” Sam asked with a concerned frown. “That’s what my grandmother did when I had ‘em as a kid.”

As the others looked to him with a mixture of expressions ranging from shock to curiosity to sympathetic certainty, Legolas paled considerably. He’d been so embarrassed by the revelation he was infested with parasites in the first place that he hadn’t begun to fathom that the treatment would be even worse. Shave his hair? Cut it to the skin? He had never cut his hair save to keep the ends clean, and he had never even seen a grown elf with hair less than to his shoulders. That he should endure the strangeness and humiliation of a thoroughly bare scalp was inconceivable!

“No . . . no, surely,” he muttered in a soft panic. “Surely there is a salve or dressing that could treat them without taking such measures.” He looked to Aragorn, thinking that surely under Lord Elrond’s tutelage he would have learned. Surely through their many millennia caring for long hair the Eldar had found an effective treatment for these unwanted invaders, especially since Legolas had never been bothered by them before.

“Unfortunately I know nothing of them, myself,” Aragorn admitted regretfully. “And we are miles from anyone fit to ask who might know. Our chief concern now is time, and we do not have any to spare in pursuit of milder means to aid your discomfort.”

“Then if we are short on time, let us ignore this and continue without delay,” Legolas replied. “If it is dirt these pests fear, I shall chase them out with it, and endure them in the meantime.”

“I fear that will take much longer than you will have patience for,” Aragorn warned. “They are drinking your very blood.”

“I am not so weak as to be hindered by the feeble bites of some tiny mite, and you need not fear they harm me,” Legolas insisted with some indignation, referring to his elven capacity for quick and effective self-healing. “I understand your instinct to see my condition healed immediately, but I would have you leave my body to _my_ keeping.”

Aragorn sighed, unwilling to fight him on it. “Then see to it that you _do_ keep it, and do not let it stymy our progress. We have a long way to go.”

***

Unfortunately, Aragorn was right that it became harder to endure. Knowing the source of the itch was _living_ only bid him scratch more aggressively, as if he might slice the creatures open with his nails.

“He’s going to make a bleeding mess of his head,” Boromir observed. “Even if he is immune to infection, that cannot be comfortable.”

And as the bugs grew in numbers, multiplying in the safe haven of his hair, the itching only became worse. Legolas tried as best as he could to pluck out the nits and insects as he could catch them, but blind to the top of his own head and spending the better part of the daylight hours paddling a boat, his efforts came nowhere close to curing his condition. 

At night, instead of seeking the respite of a bath, Legolas sought out the opposite: dirt, to rub vigorously into his scalp to quench the itch, and mud to pack deep into his roots in hopes of suffocating what lived there. His mind was not free to wander at peace but kept constantly distracted by the skittering and twinge of crawling, feasting lice. He did not feel very well rested by morning.

“Why won’t he just shave it and have done with it?” Merry asked Aragorn as his boat pulled alongside Boromir’s. He scratched his own hair in sympathy as he watched a bleary-eyed Legolas massage his scalp while Gimli took a turn with the paddle in their boat, now lagging some distance behind.

“I don’t understand why he’s being so stubborn. I can tell him he’ll feel better almost immediately,” Sam confirmed.

“The Eldar place great importance in their hair,” Aragorn replied, interpreting on behalf of the culture he’d been raised with in Rivendell. As a boy he had worn his own hair long in a style customary for elven children, but as a ranger he’d soon grown tired of the upkeep. The length it was now was more to do with the laziness in cutting it than anything else; when it got long enough to get caught under his baldric he’d take a couple inches off, but otherwise he let it do as it would. “The styles they wear mark their allegiances, they can determine some ancient lineages from the color, and for men and women alike long and healthy hair is seen as the highest mark of beauty.” He thought fondly of Arwen’s shining dark waves that skimmed her white shoulders to her waist and swirled around her when the breeze was brisk. He could imagine how devastated she would be to part with it, though he liked to think that in Legolas’s place she would be sensible.

“So he’s a bit vain about it, is what you mean,” Boromir concluded with a wry smile.

“I’d be vain about it,” defended Frodo. “It is very lovely hair.”

“It’s not so lovely caked in all that mud,” said Pippin, before catching a glimpse of Aragorn and cringing in apology. Aragorn just shook his head.

“And it can’t be worth itching as fierce as he is,” Sam frowned.

“Besides, who’s he trying to impress amongst _us_?” Merry laughed.

Despite the distance of course Legolas could hear everything. He stole a nervous glance at Gimli as if daring him to contribute his own sharp opinion, but Gimli made out as if he hadn’t been listening. He simply continued to paddle, quietly humming an old dwarvish song.

Sympathetic curiosity soon gave way to suspicion, however, as each night the company scrambled to keep as far away from Legolas as possible, leaving him to sit on one side of the fire as the rest of them huddled nearly shoulder to shoulder. Sam made a point to keep himself between Legolas and Frodo at all times and often cast Legolas leery glares as he did so, as if the bugs on his scalp were yet another dark force hell-bent on weakening the ringbearer. Or perhaps he felt Legolas’s reticence to his suggestion was an insult to his own childhood. Observing all of this, Aragorn gritted his teeth in irritation. He did not say a thing, but Legolas was nonetheless attentive to his displeasure, his face falling as he unconsciously grasped a few silky strands in his fist as if to ward against Aragorn’s unspoken desire to part him from them.

The tension finally burst when after scouting the region surrounding the campsite as was his custom, blessed as he was with the best vision and hearing, Legolas returned to give his report. “There are no sign of the Nazgul this night, and although we-- ah!” He flinched as a louse scrambled down to bite just above his eyebrow. All eyes had been upon him as he spoke, so every one of them saw the insect emerge from his hairline before he slapped his palm to his face.

“Oh, that is disgusting,” Boromir cringed, sympathetic but repulsed. The hobbits’ expressions were similar and Gimli gave a loud, choked cough of disgust.

Aragorn, however, was closer to incensed. “Come with me,” he commanded in Sindarin, ushering Legolas to follow him into the brush. Legolas was unsurprised but nevertheless uneasy when the ranger rounded on him. 

“You are being stubborn to the point of recklessness,” Aragorn scolded. “Have you not had enough of this? Do you not see that _we_ have had enough of this? And have you not spared a single thought to the selfishness of bringing this pestilence in proximity to your mortal companions who will not bear it as well as you?-- if it could even be said you _are_ bearing it?”

“You said it yourself that they prefer clean hair, so the rest of you need only carry on as you are,” he defended, though his mouth felt dry.

“They may prefer clean hair to start with, but now that they’re in our company they’ll be happy with whatever else they can find. If they’re not gotten rid of they’ll soon infest the rest of us, and you’ll forgive me if I say the rest of us would sooner avoid it. I am sorry I know no other way, but you know what needs to be done.”

Legolas’s stomach clenched in indignation at the suggestion that losing _his_ hair was somehow less of a concern than the others losing theirs, but at the same time a sense of guilt crept into his heart. However so much he wished it otherwise, it was too late for him; the lice were yet well at home and unbothered by his attempts to evict them. However, there was still the chance the rest of them might still be spared-- and it wasn’t simply vanity but their health and comfort that was at stake. When Aragorn made it so plain as his duty to the company of the Fellowship, he could no longer refuse. He sighed and silently drew the smallest of his daggers.

“I will help you if need,” Aragorn offered, now gentle.

“No,” Legolas refused with a stubborn jut of his lip. “I shall do it myself.”

He continued further into the forest away from camp to sit amongst the roots of a large oak tree, where he was comfortable. He felt some irritation when Aragorn did not depart for camp but lingered close by under some pretense of scouting for roots and berries, but he did not look in Legolas’s direction so Legolas ignored him. A small breeze fluttered past and roused a few fine tendrils around his face, whispering that the wind was out of the west, and his heart wrenched to think how he would not have this intuitive sense of the air around him again for some time. But before his resolve could desert him, he pulled one of his side braids out from his head and slowly sawed it free to lay gently beside him in the dirt.

As he diligently sliced through lock after lock he was astonished at how much of it there was, not only in length but volume; he hadn’t realized just how much hair there _was_ on his head. However, he worked quickly for the sun began to sink further on the horizon, casting the forest into grey dusk. Once he had shortened it to tufts and bristles he began the even more tedious task of scraping them down to stubble. He shuddered when he felt the lice fleeing to the other side of his scalp, and on occasion one skittered over his hand and he flicked it away.

When he realized he could not safely clear the rough patches from the back of his head, he understood Aragorn’s lingering to be foresight and forgave him for it before calling out feebly for the assistance his companion had expected to give all along. “W- will you . . . ?” he asked, hating the quaver in his voice.

Aragorn approached him with a trained expression betraying none of his thoughts on Legolas’s altered appearance, though Legolas agonized over what he must be thinking since he could not yet see for himself. Aragorn silently took the blade and held Legolas’s head in place with his other hand as he began scraping it against his skin. Even as Legolas mourned so many fond memories of his parents lovingly tending his now fallen hair, the gentle tug on his scalp as their fingers wove through the smooth silken gold, he had to grudgingly admit the sensation of Aragorn’s calloused fingers on his newly exposed skin and the blade’s persistent scratching was not wholly unpleasant either.

When he had finished with the back, Aragorn gently ran the blade over the rest of Legolas’s head, clearing the small patches he had missed in his blindness so it would all be even. Legolas did not protest, though he gasped in pain when the blade scraped over a raised scab and broke it open. Aragorn hissed in apology. “I’m sorry, but the lice seem to have enjoyed you very thoroughly.” Legolas closed his eyes and groaned, imagining how frightful he must look with his head not only bare but dotted with bleeding scabs, and berating himself for the folly of his delay that had only made it worse. 

Aragorn passed the dagger back and clapped a reassuring hand on Legolas’s shoulder when the task was done, and they agreed that given their trackers it was best to burn the evidence. The stench of the golden locks shriveling and curling into black ash was horrible, but Legolas felt a small sense of release knowing that at least the itching and stinging would be gone with it. 

He could sense that there was a spring nearby in which he could wash and boil the last of the lice and their eggs from his clothes, and Aragorn passed him a simple length of cloth he kept in his pack to serve a variety of uses-- towel, bandage, placemat, knapsack, scarf-- which he took with gratitude. The utterly alien sensation of washing his own bare head nearly brought tears to his eyes, but he bolstered himself thinking of all the sacrifices the company had made-- Aragorn having left Arwen, the hobbits venturing far from the safety of the Shire, Frodo risking both his physical constitution and his sanity, Gandalf having given his very _life_ \-- and that it was only fair he accept this loss gracefully. Still, he was not yet ready to face the company as he was, so after his bath he wrapped Aragorn’s cloth around his head so that his ears were free but his newly shorn scalp was concealed, and covered this under his cloak from Lothlórien for good measure.

Of course, immediately upon returning to camp, the first thing out of Pippin’s mouth was “Let’s have a look!” as he and Merry practically leapt to their feet out of irresistible curiosity. Legolas’s hands flew to his headwear as if frightened someone might snatch it, taking a step back from his audience.

“Everyone _to bed_ ,” Aragorn snapped, as if they were all children. At the moment, he felt as if most of them were. “We rise at dawn.” Having missed dinner, Legolas took some lembas and went to stand a troubled watch alone with his thoughts. The itch was gone, but he did not yet feel at peace.

Come morning, the two youngest hobbits were no less curious to see his transformation.

“Aren’t you hot?” Pippin would ask him from his boat, dipping his fingers into the water and running them through his hair to cool himself down. The wide river offered no shade and it was an unseasonably warm day.

“We journey in daylight and the skin is yet virgin to the sun,” Legolas explained calmly, still wrapped in his cloak. “I must protect it, for it would be foolhardy indeed to have rid myself of the lice only to burn my scalp and slow its healing.”

“I wasn’t aware elves burned in the sun,” Boromir remarked.

“They don’t,” Aragorn replied.

But Legolas did not uncover himself at nightfall, either, keeping his head concealed at meals around the fire and into the night as he kept watch. For all intents and purposes the scarf had become his own new hair, never to leave his head except for those few private moments when he skimmed his hand along the stubble to feel how it had grown-- and consistently found himself disappointed.

One night, Sam inquired after the bit of cloth Aragorn had on hand so that he might use it to wrap up his pots to dredge in the river for easy washing. Aragorn indicated to Legolas with a jerk of his head and a raised brow. “Legolas, could I borrow your, erm, hat for a moment? Just to do the washing up?” Sam called out to him.

Legolas did not make any indication he had heard him.

“Does he need me to ask him in Elvish?” Sam asked.

“I doubt it’s the language so much as the request,” Boromir replied.

“I’ll help you wash them by hand, Sam,” Frodo assured him, but Sam was not consoled.

“It’s only hair,” Sam grumbled, raising his voice though he was already well aware Legolas could hear him.

***

Still a few days’ rowing from the great falls where they would need to abandon their boats for the road again, the company was having a quick breakfast before another day on the river. Legolas barely had appetite for more than a nibble of lembas, though the others ate heartily since Boromir had caught a fish that Sam’s roast chicken seasoning complemented perfectly. However, every single one of them reacted with equal shock when a short, stocky armored figure stepped back into camp and it took them a moment to realize he was one of their company. Barefaced as the hobbits, Gimli was practically unrecognizable.

“I—I noticed a few nits in my beard as I was washing this morning,” he explained, stammering under the brutal spotlight of attention. “Didn’t want to risk the company, so I took care of it straight away.”

Legolas wondered if he meant to shame him for his own delay, especially since there was no denying how Gimli had caught them, but nevertheless his eyes brightened in relief. He was not the only one of the company to have been infested, not the only one who had to endure a bare patch of skin where once was the proud mark of his race.

Aragorn sighed. “We shall have to check everyone again. Gimli, were there none in your hair? Let me have a look.”

They went back into the brush for some privacy as Gimli removed his helm so Aragorn could stand over him, parting the auburn locks to scan again for signs of the wily creatures. 

“I see nothing here at all,” Aragorn remarked. “Just as there was nothing when I checked you last. And I don’t see a single scab on your face now that the hair is gone. I don’t mean to make you feel as if shaved your beard for nothing, my friend, but are you _certain_ there were lice?” 

“By Aulë, of course there weren’t!” Gimli sniffed gruffly, still unable to dissociate the lice from shame. Aragorn blinked in surprise, and Gimli explained. “The lad seemed so heartbroken over his hair I couldn’t stand it anymore. The rest of the company’s done nothing but harass him about it, badgering him to mortify himself for their amusement, only to throw it in his face that ‘It’s only hair!’ Well, clearly to some of us it’s a bit more than that, and he oughtn’t to be made to feel he’s been unreasonable to mourn it.”

“I must admit Legolas’s hair has been a distraction from the grief we all faced in Moria,” Aragorn confessed. “The hobbits have been in better spirits at least.” Given Legolas’s age and the staid maturity of the elves he knew, he had been surprised and frustrated by how reticent he had been to do what was obviously practical and necessary and not let his pride and sentiment get the best of him. Perhaps that had been unfair.

“At his expense!-- as if he weren’t also mourning our friend, and just as out of his element as the rest of us! What if he’s the next to be buried, and looking as he does? Do you think that’s not crossed his mind? We are all of us together on this quest, some of us without a single sole member of our race to sympathize with, and while goodness knows the ringbearer carries the worst of it are any of us truly comfortable on this journey? We’ve got to know we’re _together_ in this, not tearing each other down as if there weren’t greater enemies to contend with.”

Aragorn gaped at Gimli for moment, suitably impressed. “You are a true friend indeed, Gimli, to cut your own beard in solidarity with an elf,” he smiled.

Gimli grumbled, irritated he no longer had a face full of hair to hide his blush. “It’s more than just hair, but . . . it’s only hair,” he shrugged. However, spotting the twinkle in Aragorn’s eye, he landed a quick cuff to his arm. “But don’t you dare say a word to him about it! I won’t have him think I’ve pitied him.”

Legolas was indeed in much better cheer as they continued their way towards the Argonath, and by the next day he was even willing to abandon the concealment of his cloak. The high cliffs of the river echoed with lively argument of whether a dwarf’s or an elf’s hair would grow in faster, and which of them looked most foolish in the meantime. Their banter kept the company’s spirits high in the final days of their united fellowship, but to spare them the shame in the eyes of their kin, Frodo promised that when he made it home-- _should_ they make it home-- he would kindly omit this detail from his tale.


End file.
